


Rorschach Inkblots of Blood

by chanderson



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Blood and Gore, Bottom George, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Character Death, Older Man/Younger Man, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Unhealthy Relationships, Whamilton - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-06 04:55:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11593380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanderson/pseuds/chanderson
Summary: Returning Soldiers Support Group, Dr. Angelica Schuyler, MD6-month process group to promote insight into how past traumatic experiences contribute to present-day problems with work, love, communication, and connection to self and others. Open to higher-functioning survivors of single and multiple military traumas.George wonders when this is supposed to stop—if it ever stops. The pain, the nightmares, the guilt. He doesn't know how much longer he can do this.Enter: Alexander Hamilton.





	1. Bullet Holes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NO IDEA what this is. It's set right around the 'end' of the Iraq War, so 2011. 
> 
> I don't know much about military stuff, so I'm sorry if that whole part is just dumb.
> 
> Also, when I wrote this, I imagined Nate looking like young Harrison Ford. (You're welcome)
> 
> Alex will be in the next chapter :-)

“I think my wife is cheating on me, and I don’t really know what to do about it. I haven’t exactly been forthcoming in bed lately, ya know? But does that give her license to _cheat?_ I don’t think so. I don’t know what to do about it. Should I confront her?” Henry Knox pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and mops up the sweat beading on his large forehead. His big, beefy hand is shaking and he anxiously rubs his palms on his ill-fitting slacks. He fidgets nervously in his metal chair and looks expectantly at Dr. “ _just call me Angelica”_ Schuyler, MD. She’s sitting comfortably in her chair, elegant fingers steepled under her chin. Her blouse is rather low-cut today and George notices with some amusement that one of the younger guys—Tallmadge, maybe—is ogling her and the tortoiseshell necklace hanging between her breasts, situated comfortably in her cleavage. She smiles gently at Henry and looks around the rest of the sad-sack group of people slouched in the circle of chairs. George crosses his arms and casts his eyes to the ground, studying the gray carpet. 

“Does anyone going through similar problems have any advice for Henry?” Angelica asks. George hates when she does this—asks them as if they’re going to have the answers. Isn’t the whole point of a support group getting support from a _professional?_

The room is uncomfortably quiet for several seconds before Benedict—infuriatingly handsome, smooth-talking, fancy lawyer Benedict—leans over and puts a comforting hand on Henry’s knee. He smiles, flashing two rows of perfect teeth. The fucking asshole. 

“I think you should talk to her, Henry,” he says a little too patronizingly for George’s taste, and squeezes Henry’s knee. He sits back up and shrugs, clearly proud of himself for imparting such an amazing little tidbit of wisdom, and Angelica nods approvingly. 

“I agree with Benedict, Henry. Remember, communication with loved ones is key for getting through these difficult times.” Henry nods, fatty double chin jiggling with the movement. 

“Thanks,” he says quietly. 

George discretely glances at his watch. Christ, they still have half an hour left. From across the circle, Benedict meets his eyes and raises an eyebrow. George nods tersely and turns his attention to the ugly piece of abstract art hanging on the wall. He always sits right across from it, the same seat every session. It gives him something to look at other than the puffy, red eyes of his fellow support group goers. And Benedict’s stupid, chiseled face. He doesn’t know why he hates the painting so much, but it irritates him. It’s just a bunch of pink, yellow, purple, and blue squiggles that come together to form something that vaguely resembles a 2nd grader’s art project. It makes him a little nauseous. Or maybe the painful divulgence of emotions does. Either way, he always feels just a tad unsettled during these sessions, like, if he really put some effort in it, he could probably throw up. But he doesn’t. He just sits in his uncomfortable, cold metal chair and stares at the walls of the conference room. Sometimes he’ll turn to stare out the large, floor to ceiling windows that overlook the sprawling cityscape below. Angelica may have ugly art on her walls, but her office building is still nice.

“George?” 

George snaps his head over to look at Angelica, his face heating up as everyone’s eyes turn to look at him. He swallows, trying to work some spit into his dry mouth, and nods. 

“Yeah? Sorry,” he says gruffly. Angelica smiles at him, her eyes crinkling. 

“It’s alright. Would you like to tell us about your week? If I remember correctly, last week wasn’t your best. Was this week any better?” 

Benedict smirks and George shifts his weight, recrossing his legs and fiddling with his tie—biding his time. Angelica looks at him expectantly and George heaves a sigh. 

“It was about the same.” 

“Are you still having nightmares?” Angelica presses. He bristles and tugs his tie looser. The silk is smooth under his fingers. 

“Yes.” 

“Would you like to share one of them with us? We might be able to help you figure out what they mean.” George laughs—a throaty, almost hysterical sound—and shakes his head. 

“They’re not symbolic. They’re just memories—the same shit every time. There’s no deeper meaning.” 

“Is it the same scene every night?” Angelica asks patiently, her expression still pleasantly blank. George grinds his teeth and drums his fingers on his thigh. 

“Yes.” 

“Is it the same scene as the flashbacks you have while you’re awake?” Angelica purses her painted red lips and arches a perfectly shaped eyebrow. George swallows, the sound uncomfortably loud in his ears. Across the circle, Benedict is watching him with a passively amused expression on his face, like he _could_ give a shit but doesn’t. 

“Yes.” George shifts his weight again and clears his throat. “But I’d rather not talk about it.” 

Benedict smirks, taunting George with his eyes. 

_“You weak fucker,”_ his expression seems to say. George closes his eyes and takes a deep, steadying breath. 

“That’s alright, George. Maybe next week,” Angelica says kindly. George almost laughs out loud. Yeah right. 

Angelica continues her round of questions. The Tallmadge kid cries recounting his recent falling out with his mother. George notices with some interest that Tallmadge still wears his dog tags. He must be freshly home then. George wracks his brain and tries to remember; he thinks he remembers Tallmadge mentioning Yemen and a failed raid, lost some buddies, hates the system, blames the president. A classic young soldier story. Poor kid. 

After what feels like forever, Angelica wraps up this week’s session and everyone awkwardly gets up and folds their chairs. George stacks his against the wall and walks past Benedict, brushing his shoulder. George waves goodbye to Henry and ducks out into the cold, tugging his heavy overcoat a little tighter over his chest. It’s drizzling lightly and he curses himself under his breath for forgetting his umbrella. It won’t matter though. Benedict’s car is parked on the curb. 

And speaking of the devil, George hears Benedict walk up before he sees him. Recognizes the familiar _step-shuffle-drag_ of Benedict’s limping gait. Injured in Kuwait, almost lost his leg. George has heard it all before. 

“Poor Henry. The sad fucker has no idea that his wife’s probably been cheating on him since before his deployment,” Benedict says as he walks up and clicks his keys. His shiny little cherry red Mercedes beeps and George robotically pulls the passenger side door open and slides in. The car purrs to life and Benedict deftly swings it out into traffic. George tucks his cold hands in between his thighs and shrugs. 

“I like Henry.” Benedict laughs and flips on the radio. Some Rolling Stones song plays quietly, a lone guitar wailing. George gives him an irritated look, but Benedict doesn’t notice. 

“I like Henry too,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean that I don’t also think he’s a bit of a sad, fat piece of shit.” 

“You’re an asshole,” George mutters. Benedict laughs again and shrugs a shoulder. 

“Yeah, and you like it,” he taunts. 

George doesn’t answer him. Probably because he’s right. 

Whatever. 

They ride in silence, and George leans his head against the window, the glass cool against his temple. 

They never talk on the ride to Benedict's. They wouldn’t have anything to talk about.

\---

Benedict’s apartment is always dark, and George stumbles a bit and stubs his toe on the armoire. He irritatedly reaches over to flip the light switch and blinks as light floods the impeccably clean bedroom. He hates Benedict’s bedroom. It’s all dark and sleek, exposed brick walls painted black with black furniture and a black and white bedspread. George doesn’t know how he lives like this. 

“Christ, turn that light out,” Benedict mutters after he ducks out of his walk-in closet, naked. George rolls his eyes but turns the light off. He starts to undress, sighing in relief once Benedict turns on both of the bedside lamps. Not that George particularly wants to see Benedict’s face, but he’d like to be able to see what he’s working with. 

He carefully lays his suit out on the chair in the corner and sits on the bed. This is always the worst part. The awkward beat of silence and uncertainty before Benedict shoves George back into the bed and straddles his hips. 

Benedict kisses like he’s trying to eat George alive, gnashing his teeth and tugging George’s lip until tears prick in his eyes. 

“Will you stop biting me?” George hisses as he grabs Benedict’s hips and grinds up against him. Benedict bites George’s earlobe and sucks it into his mouth. He releases it with a pop and pants in George’s ear. 

“No. I know you like it,” he breathes, his breath hot as it ghosts over George’s ear. George shivers despite himself, and Benedict leers at him. “You act like you’re such a big tough guy—like you hate me,” Benedict growls in George’s ear as he drags his nails over George’s nipple, sharp and cutting. “But I know you fucking love it. I know you love letting me fuck the shit out of you like you’re some horny little teenager.” 

“Fuck off,” George snaps, even as Benedict grinds down on George’s cock and George chokes off into a moan. Benedict sucks a bruise into his neck, his teeth sharp against George’s skin.

“If you hate me so much, George, how come you keep coming back? Every session you come back and let me take care of you like a good boy. Poor, sad Colonel George Washington with his dead war buddy. What was his name? Nick? No, wait, _Nate_. It was Nate, right?”

George shudders as Benedict squirts some lube in his hand and starts to stroke George off, pumping him so hard that it almost hurts. 

“Shut the fuck up,” George manages to pant out through gritted teeth. Heat is painfully pooling in his belly and he reaches up to grab Benedict’s hips, squeezing hard divots into his smooth skin. George’s toes curls and he turns his head to burry it in the soft, fluffy pillows. Benedict laughs and clucks his tongue.

“Oh but you love it, George,” he jeers, his words accompanied by the sick sound of skin slapping skin as he continues to pump George’s cock. George screws his eyes shut and whimpers. “That’s right, George. You fucking love it.”

George shouts, startled, when Benedict slides off of him and settles in between his legs. His hand is suddenly gone and George’s cock bobs, smearing his stomach with pre-come. The snap of the lube bottle is shockingly loud in the quiet of the room, and then Benedict is working George open, jamming two lubed up fingers in at one time as he starts to pump George’s cock again. 

It’s too much; it’s painful: The unbearable pressure, the burning heat in his gut. He bucks his hips up and groans, guttural and primal. Benedict bites George’s shoulder hard enough to hurt, and George grabs handfuls of the sheets in his fists as he comes all over himself, hot come painting stripes over his stomach and chest. 

When Benedict slams into him, George lets it happen. He’s too fucked out to do anything about it. He just lays there as Benedict fucks him, writhing every time Benedict hits his prostate. “God you’re so fucking tight, George. If only the other guys at the support group knew how much you loved taking my cock. What would they think of you? Knowing that you love having a cock rammed inside of you like a good boy.” 

“I hate you,” George spits even as he feels his cock starting to fill back out, caught in between their bodies as Benedict slams into him over and over again. Benedict laughs, unkind and taunting and slaps George across the face. 

“You should really watch your mouth,” Benedict warns him. 

Benedict comes hard in the condom, pulsing inside George. 

He slaps George again. And again. 

George comes a second time. 

\---

Benedict is still lying in bed, half covered by the sheet, as George finishes getting ready, patting his pockets to check for his phone, keys, and wallet. His cheeks are still stinging from earlier. He feels disgusting. 

“I’ll see you next week, George,” Benedict croons from the bed. George pauses, his hand already resting on the doorknob, and laughs hollowly. 

“See you next week.” 

He can’t get out of Benedict’s apartment fast enough, and he sucks in a deep breath as soon as the front door of the building shuts behind him. The doorman smiles at him and George tries to smile back. 

The subway ride back to his place isn’t that long, but George is exhausted and nauseous. It’s always like this. Every week. He reaches up and gingerly rubs his cheeks. 

He hates it—hates Benedict, hates the sex. He hates all of it.

He never wants it to end. 

It’s cathartic. 

He deserves it. Deserves to be treated like shit. 

After Nate, George doesn’t deserve anything good ever again. 

\---

George figures that, even if he loses his memory and goes bat-shit-crazy in his old age, he’ll still remember the night It happened. It being the death of his closest friend, his _something_ —lover, boyfriend, fuck-buddy—one of those. They never put a label on it. It was too risqué. Don’t Ask Don’t Tell is a bitch. 

But now it doesn’t matter because Nate Greene is dead and George isn’t. 

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever stop seeing it. Every time his head hits the pillow at night, he watches Nate die. Hears his blood-curdling scream. Thank God the dreams don’t have smells: The metallic scent of blood, the rancid smell of piss and shit, the smell of burning flesh. 

In the dreams he can’t smell death. 

But he can smell it in the flashbacks. 

Those are the worst. They happen whenever—uncontrollable, unpredictable, debilitating, horrifying. 

George drags himself into his apartment and goes into the kitchen. He stands shivering in front of his open fridge before his stomach roils and he decides to forgo dinner. Again. 

He takes a shower, washing his body twice, trying to rid himself of the disgusting feeling of Benedict on top of him. He can’t stop himself from reaching up to cradle his cheek again, and it makes his stomach churn nauseatingly. 

As he crawls into bed, curling up into a tight ‘C,’ he fantasizes that maybe tonight will be the night he sleeps through the night. He imagines how good it would feel to sleep without dead men dancing on the backs of his eyelids. 

But he always dreams about it. It never ends.

** ~~~ **

_ 2010, one year ago _

“You’re so fucking gorgeous, you know that right?” Nate asks, playfully nipping George’s jaw. George laughs and nuzzles Nate’s neck, breathing him in. 

“You flatter me,” George teases. “Just trying to get in my good graces so I’ll let you sleep in my bed tonight.” Nate laughs and catches George’s lips in a kiss. It’s slow, languid, and gentle, and George hums into it. Nate smiles against George’s lips and squeezes the back of his neck.

“I love you.”

George kisses Nate again so he doesn’t have to answer.

\---

It’s unbearably hot today and George is drenched in sweat under his heavy military fatigues. They’re on a patrol, carrying water to some villagers stuck in enemy territory, and George tries to remind himself that it’s worth it—the heat and the discomfort. They’re helping people. He gets so sick of killing people. This should be a nice reprieve. 

Nate is sitting next to him, and his tan skin is shiny with sweat. George watches as a bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face. As if he can feel George watching him, he turns and shoots George a boyish smile. 

“S’hot as fuck today,” he calls over the sound of the engine. George nods and rubs the sweat out of his eyes. 

“Yeah, I could use some heavy duty AC right about now.” Nate discreetly brushes his fingers against George’s and George smiles. 

Then all hell breaks loose. 

The pitter-patter of machine gun fire is deafeningly loud and the guy sitting right in front of George—Daniel Morgan—slumps over as his head is blown into a million pieces. Blood splatters across George’s face, some of it getting in his mouth. He gags and looks around in confusion, fumbling to get his gun. 

George doesn’t even think about it, he just throws his body off the side of the jeep and rolls. His shoulder explodes in pain but he doesn’t have time to think about it. He barely registers the pain as adrenaline floods his system. 

Nate is a few steps away from George, and he gestures to the rooftop of a building, what looks like a supermarket, at the edge of town. George’s stomach roils when he sees two snipers positioned there. 

Bullets pepper the ground at his feet and he swings his gun up, slamming it into the injured shoulder. 

He watches with a sick sense of satisfaction as one of the Iraqi soldiers falls forward onto his gun, blood spurting out of the side of his neck. George hurries to stand behind the jeep and sucks in a few deep breaths, pressing his back against the tire anchored to the hatch. He shouts for Nate to get back, even as he watches Nate raise his gun and aim. 

But the sniper shoots faster. 

It happens in what feels like slow motion:

Nate’s body jerks as a bullet plows into his abdomen, and George screams as Nate staggers, hands immediately grabbing the wound. 

The next bullet rips through Nate’s neck and he falls to the ground like a bag of bricks. Blood spurts out of his neck like a Yellow Stone geyser, thick and red. It pools around him, staining the ground, creating Rorschach inkblots of blood.

Someone else on the patrol, Benjamin Lincoln, kills the second sniper and everything slams back into focus when the sniper stumbles and falls.

George runs to Nate, sliding in the dust like a baseball player sliding into first. 

“Nate, Jesus, Nate, please,” George chokes as he tries to cover the wound in his neck. The blood is warm under his hands and George almost vomits. “Come on Nate, please don’t.” George tries to cover the wound in Nate’s side with his other hand, but it’s no use. 

Nate is dead. 

His hazel eyes are open wide, staring, unseeing, into the sweltering Iraqi sun. 

As cliché as it is, George gently closes his eyes and squeezes his hand. “I’m so sorry, Nate,” he whispers, the words almost getting caught in his throat. “I love you. I love you, okay? Please Nate.”

His tears are as hot as Nate’s blood. 

Benjamin walks over and tugs George back, dragging him away from Nate. 

“Come on George,” he says soothingly. “Come on, don’t look. Just come with me.” 

“We can’t leave him,” George says as he blinks against the high pitched ringing in his ears. He sluggishly turns his head and tries to fight through the haze. “I can’t leave him.”

“Don’t worry. We’re not leaving him, but we need to get back to base. Sit in the jeep and drink some water. You’re in shock.” 

“Is he really dead?” George asks, staring at Benjamin. 

“Yes, George. Nate’s dead.” 

George sways and grabs his stomach. “Jesus Christ,” he pants. “I can’t—” He sucks in a breath and numbly lets Benjamin help him into the jeep. Once he’s seated, he wraps his arms around himself and tries to slow his ragged breathing. 

Benjamin hauls Nate’s body into the car and wraps him in a blanket. 

George holds him in his lap, his legs resting in the seat he was just sitting in. Alive. Talking. Smiling. 

“You okay, George?” Benjamin asks as he shoves his foot down on the gas peddle and the jeep lurches forward. George reaches up to wipe away a tear and stops when he sees the blood coating his hand, rapidly drying and conforming to the lines in his skin. 

“Nate’s dead,” he says, blinking rapidly. 

“Yeah. He’s dead.” 

Daniel’s body is still in the seat next to Benjamin, the rough fabric now stained with his blood, and George closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at it. 

Nate’s body is heavy in George’s lap, his blood seeping through the blanket to soak George’s pants. 

He puts his head down and sobs. 

** ~~~ **

George starts awake, his hand flying up to grab his chest as his heart slams into his ribcage. He takes a deep breath in an attempt to quell the panic rising in him like a tidal wave. 

He wonders when this is supposed to stop—if it ever stops. 

He gropes around for his phone and shakily opens up a new message to Benedict. 

_I’m so tired of not being able to sleep. I don’t think I can keep doing this._

George presses his hands into his eye sockets until colors explode on the backs of his eyelids. He shudders and tries to stifle a sob. 

His phone pings and he barks out a hysterical laugh when he sees Benedict’s message. 

_Don’t be so dramatic George._

What an asshole. 

George gets up and goes for a run, letting the sound of his shoes slapping the pavement soothe him. The burn of the cold air in his lungs clears his head and he pushes Nate’s handsome face streaked with blood to the back of his mind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should be working on YSH, but instead I'm writing this shit. I don't know how much longer it'll be tbh. I don't plan things.
> 
> George/Nate is just a random pairing I needed from his time in the war. No one ships them. Just roll with it, y'all.
> 
> I hate Benedict Arnold's character on Turn so much; he's such an asshole. 
> 
> I love bottom George so, at least in his (not good) relationship with Benedict, he's a bottom okay. 
> 
> Comments are super cool. Let me know if this SUCKS.


	2. Lucky Session Number Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm adding a mildly dubious consent tag that applies to this chapter (and probably future ones). Just a heads up.

It’s been a rough week. One of those weeks where George barely feels like a sane human being—where it’s hard for him to even get himself up in the morning. He misses two days of work, spends the days cooped up in bed shivering. He has a flashback in his office at work and has to take a half day. He feels like a failure. 

And now he’s here, back at Angelica’s office. When he walks into the conference room, he immediately frowns and anxiously tugs on his tie. 

Someone is in his seat. 

Okay, it’s not _his_ seat, but George has always been a creature of habit, and he likes the comfort of having a constant place to sit. He comes in, he sits in his spot, and he gets through these horrible, uncomfortable meetings. 

It’s a routine. 

He doesn’t immediately recognize the guy in his seat: He’s got smooth, tan skin and dark black hair tied up in a ponytail. George approaches slowly, hesitating, before he walks up and stands right in front of Ponytail Guy. He’s hunched over reading a worn paperback, but he looks up in surprise when George looms over him. 

He’s cute. _Really_ cute. 

Thin and wiry, dark brown doe eyes that are sharp with intelligence, a shadow of a goatee. He furrows his eyebrows and closes his book over his thumb to keep his spot.

“Um, hi?” he says, shifting his weight. George swallows and chuckles nervously. 

“Hey, look, sorry—” George takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. “That’s my seat.” Ponytail Guy blinks in surprise but immediately stands and points at the seat to their right. 

“Is that one open?” George nods and Ponytail Guy flashes him a smile and eases down in the new seat. George sees Benedict standing at the snack table. His eyes narrow possessively and George shivers.

Fuck Benedict. 

George turns back to Ponytail Guy and studies his profile for a few seconds. “I’m George.” Ponytail Guy startles and laughs a little breathlessly before dog-earing his page and setting his book down. He angles his body toward George and smiles. 

“Hey George. I’m Alex.” He holds his hand out and George grabs it. They shake, and George is sad when Alex pulls away. “So,” Alex says conversationally. “Might as well get the one million dollar question out of the way.” George feels his stomach sink. “Where were you deployed?” George winces and nervously looks over at the ugly abstract painting, momentarily getting lost in the long, swirly yellow streak that cuts across the middle of the canvas. He looks back over at Alex and swallows.

“Iraq. I don’t like talking about it,” he says matter-of-factly. Alex’s eyes widen a bit in surprise before he cracks a grin. 

“I was deployed in Afghanistan, and I don’t like talking about it either. Good thing we’re at a support group to talk about it, huh?” Alex winks, and George can’t help himself. He leans forward and laughs.

“Exactly.” They both fall silent, and George glances down at Alex’s book on the floor, nodding approvingly when he sees the title: Rousseau’s _Discourse on the Arts and Sciences._ Alex must notice him looking because he smiles and shrugs. 

“I’m a sucker for political philosophy. Have you read it?” George nods and Alex smile grows even wider. “Isn’t it fantastic? I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve read it—” 

“Hey Georgie.” 

They both look up when Benedict strolls over, shirt sleeves rolled up to display his shiny, gold Rolex. George clenches his jaw and shoots Benedict a look. 

“Hi Benedict,” George says through gritted teeth. "I told you not to call me that, remember?” Benedict smirks and shrugs a shoulder. A look of bemused indifference curling the edges of his pretty lips.

“Whatever.” He gives Alex an appraising once over before turning back to George. “Are you coming over tonight?” George glares at him before shrugging, feigning nonchalance. 

“Maybe,” he says, tone casually blasé. 

Benedict’s eyes darken and George shivers. When he speaks again, his voice is a low warning. 

“I think you’re coming over tonight.” He reaches over and squeezes George’s shoulder hard enough to hurt. George tries—and fails—to cover up a wince and clenches his teeth. 

“We’ll see.” His voice only shakes a little when he says it. 

Benedict releases his shoulder and levels George with one more sharp, stormy look. After he walks away, Alex lets out a low whistle and shakes his head. 

“Who the fuck is _that_ asshole?” 

“Benedict Arnold. I’d stay away from him.”

\---

Angelica is a few minutes late, and she apologizes profusely as she hurries in with a thick stack of folders shoved under her arm. She takes her seat and crosses her long, slender legs—completely at ease. It’s such a sharp contrast to everyone else in the circle. Except Benedict. He’s always cool, calm, and collected. George doesn’t exactly understand why he’s in this support group, but, like Angelica always says, grief manifests itself in different ways.

This week, Tallmadge starts the session off, giving everyone a tearful update on his precarious relationship with his mother. He tells a long winded, drawn out account of another fight, pausing several times to pluck a tissue out of the box Henry holds out for him. He goes on and on for at least 10 minutes, but the gist of it is pretty simple: His mom hates him. George wishes that poor, young Tallmadge could figure out how to shorten his sob stories. It would make everything just a little easier for everyone else. 

When Angelica turns to Alex, George tries not to look too interested. She warmly introduces him as the new guy and asks him to give them the rundown: Who are you, where’d you fight, why are you here, blah, blah, blah. The usual shit. Alex sits up a little straighter in his chair and twirls a loose piece of hair around his finger. 

“Well, my name’s Alex Hamilton,” he says slowly, chuckling a little nervously. “Sergeant Major Hamilton, to be exact. l I served in Afghanistan.” He keeps twirling the piece of hair and shifts his weight. “I think it’s obvious why I’m here. The diagnosis is sort of in the description of the group.” George chuckles and Alex shoots him a thankful look. Angelica purses her lips and takes a sip out of her pink water bottle. 

“Would you go a little more in-depth with what you’ve been struggling with?” she prods. Alex chews on his lip and glances around nervously. Without even thinking about it, George reaches over and squeezes his shoulder supportively. 

He swears he can feel Benedict’s anger crackling like an electric spark from across the circle. It makes him a little nauseous. Or maybe that’s the art. Either one. 

Alex nods appreciatively and holds his head up. A true soldier. 

“I’ve been having problems with emotional distance. My boyfriend recently left me, so that was sort of a wake up call for me. I realized that I haven’t really been _present_ , you know? So I guess I’d like to fix that.” Alex shrugs and relaxes back in his seat. Angelica nods, apparently pleased.

“Well, welcome to the group Alex. We look forward to helping you along on your journey.” 

George cringes when Angelica turns her attention to look at him. His stomach churns as her ruby-red lips split into a grin. “George, how was your week?” 

“It was fine.” He shrugs and nervously drums his fingers on his thigh. Angelica frowns and recrosses her legs. 

“George,” she says gently. “You’ve been to several sessions now, but you still haven’t shared very much with us. You know we’re here to help you, right?” 

“I know.” George takes a deep breath and stares at the abstract painting, focusing on the myriad squiggles and lines. Jesus Christ, what an _ugly_ piece of art. 

“Will you share at least one thing that happened this week?” 

He blinks as Angelica levels him with a look that he’s sure is supposed to put him at ease. 

It just makes him want to leave. 

He can do this. All he has to do is share something. Anything.

“ _I threw up my dinner last night.”_

_“I keep randomly crying at the dumbest shit.”_

_“I think that I might be a little suicida—”_

“I had a flashback at work,” he blurts out. 

Fuck. 

He wants to take it back, knows that this is the kind of statement that’ll earn a follow up question or two. Questions he won’t want to answer. Questions he _can’t_ answer. 

“What was the flashback of? Is it the same one you always have?” Angelica’s voice is impossibly patient and calm. George hates it. 

Across the circle, Benedict is sneering at him. He must find this so fucking hilarious, watching George squirm and flounder. 

George opens and closes his mouth, trying to form the words that will explain the worst 30 minutes of his life. 

Then Alex’s hand is warm and comforting on his shoulder and George feels himself relax just a little. He turns and meets Alex’s eyes, surprised to find so much warmth and kindness there. 

George takes a deep breath and wrings his hands. He can do this. Angelica is right. Maybe lucky session number six will be his time to shine. 

“I relive my boyfriend dying,” George spits out, immediately screwing his eyes shut. “He got shot and killed when our supply mission was ambushed. I watched him die. It was… I can’t even describe it. There was so much blood. I was soaked in it.” George chokes on a laugh that comes out sounding more than a little hysterical. “It’s horrible and I can’t get it to stop. I just keep seeing it over and over again. It doesn’t matter if I’m asleep or awake. It’s always right there.” 

Benedict stares at him and George shrinks under his hawkish, calculating stare. He’s never felt smaller, sitting here sniveling in this too-bright room full of sad people down on their luck. It’s so fucking depressing that he could almost laugh for real. Almost. 

“Sometimes I have flashbacks too.” 

George startles and looks over at Alex when he speaks. He offers George a gentle, closed-lip smile, and George feels a little less panicked. 

Angelica nods her head enthusiastically, obviously sensing that they must be on the brink of some sort of psychological breakthrough, and encourages Alex to keep going. He just shrugs and crosses his arms. “I got stranded for a couple days out in the desert, separated from the rest of my unit during a night raid. They thought I was dead. Hell, _I_ thought I was dead. I still have flashbacks: The gunfight leading up to it, the long nights shivering my ass off—completely exposed to the elements, the sick dizzy feeling I had from dehydration. It’s terrible.” Alex heaves a sigh and holds his hands out as if to say _‘what can you do about it.’_

“Excellent, Alex,” Angelica praises. “Thank you for sharing.” She turns to George and smiles. “Don’t you feel better knowing that there are people going through the same struggles as you, George?” She looks at him expectantly, and George shrugs noncommittally. 

“I guess so.” 

Her smile falls just a fraction of an inch, but she nods in approval anyway. “Well that’s great George. Hopefully you’ll continue to let us help you open up and explore what these flashbacks mean to you.”

“Yeah, maybe.” 

As Angelica turns her attention to poor ole Henry, Alex reaches over and squeezes George’s knee affectionately. His smile is so radiant that it almost takes George’s breath away. 

“You alright after… that?” Alex whispers, leaning in close so George can hear. George’s cheeks heat up and he ducks his head, nodding. 

“Yeah.” He swallows and clears his throat. “Thanks.” Alex nods, leans back, and folds his hands in his lap. George thinks he may have found something other than the art to stare at. 

The rest of the session is uneventful: Henry lets them know—to no one’s surprise—that he still didn’t talk to his wife, and Benedict spews some of his classic bullshit in between the nasty looks he’s shooting George. Every time they make eye contact, George’s stomach roils. 

Angelica finally dismisses them, and Benedict makes a beeline for George. 

George feels paralyzed, standing there with one arm in his coat, as Benedict stalks over. His eyes flash angrily and he grabs George’s arm, tugging him close.

“Get your jacket on. We’re going to my place,” he hisses. George swallows and quickly pulls his jacket all the way on. Benedict tersely nods his head toward the door and George slinks out of the room, staring at the floor so he doesn’t have to meet Alex’s confused, suspicious look. 

\---

George expects Benedict to give him _something_ before he gets to the slapping, but there’s no fanfare tonight. As soon as they’re inside the bedroom, Benedict slams George against the wall and slaps him so hard that his head knocks into the plaster with a hollow thunk. He groans and blinks against the spots dancing across his vision. 

Benedict’s cock is already hard and George shudders when he feels it pressed against his thigh. He doesn’t know if he can do this. Not after the shit week he's had.  _Especially_ not after whatever the fuck happened during the session tonight. Public displays of emotion aren't really George's cup of tea, and he's still embarrassed and self conscious—not the best combination of emotions to be feeling when you're trying to have a good fuck. 

“Benedict, I—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Benedict hisses as he slaps George again. “You think you’re so _funny_ , Georgie? Sitting there flirting with that grungy kid? God you’re an embarrassment. If only you could’ve seen your face as you sat there sniffling like a little bitch. Disgusting. Pathetic.” 

George whimpers when Benedict kisses him, always all teeth and nothing else. Benedict devours George, marking him with angry, purpling bruises. 

“Jesus Christ, Benedict, will you listen—” 

Benedict cuts George off with another sharp slap across the face. 

“Get undressed,” he snarls. “I want you on that bed, ass in the air.” 

Benedict disappears into the closet and George starts to sluggishly take his clothes off. His cheeks are stinging and he gingerly rubs the smarting skin as he gets up on the bed and halfheartedly arranges himself on all fours. 

When Benedict comes back out, he laughs darkly and climbs up beside George, landing one sharp smack to George’s left flank. George’s cock twitches embarrassingly and Benedict laughs again. “You like that George?” he croons before palming George’s ass. 

Benedict licks over George’s hole with the flat of his tongue, and George’s arms give out. He falls forward and presses his face into the mound of pillows.

“Benedict,” he breathes, choking off into a moan when Benedict wiggles his tongue inside him, pushing past the first ring of muscles. Benedict diligently works George open with his tongue, and George bucks into the air and groans, an unintelligible string of words that he pants into the pillows. Benedict chuckles, his breath hot on George’s ass. 

“Yes Georgie?” he whispers before nudging George to roll over. George grits his teeth at the name and rolls onto his back.

“Don’t fucking call me that,” he snaps.

He realizes it was a mistake as soon as the words leave his mouth. He should've known, based on Benedict's mood—Benedict doesn't like when George talks back, especially when he's mad.

Benedict slaps him so hard that George cries out in pain and tears prick in his eyes. He furiously blinks them away as Benedict leers at him and trails his fingers down George’s chest. 

“You’re so _sweet_ , Georgie.” Benedict grabs a condom and rolls it on. “I can call you whatever the fuck I want.” He rubs himself with lube. “You’re the one on your back, baby.” He rams his cock into George hard enough to jolt him out of place, and George groans. 

He doesn’t know if it’s out of pain or pleasure. Does it even matter at this point? 

Benedict fucks George hard, fast, and dirty; and George just lays there and takes it. Even when the burn edges a little too far into ‘pain’ territory for his liking, he just reminds himself to keep calm and breathe. 

And all the while, he's embarrassingly rock-hard and smearing pre-come all over his stomach where his cock is caught between their bodies. It's too much and not enough at same time, and George sobs with need. 

When Benedict finally grabs George’s leaking cock, he shudders and arches his back off the bed. “Fuck, Benedict, please,” he pants.

Benedict grins and squeezes George’s hip hard enough to bruise. “Let me see you come, Georgie,” he whispers huskily. “Be a good boy for me.” Benedict rubs his thumb over George’s tip and George gasps.

He comes across his stomach and Benedict follows him soon after. 

As soon as Benedict pulls out and they get cleaned up, George clambers off the bed and starts clumsily pulling his clothes on. His cheeks are burning, his ass aches, and he feels mildly nauseous. 

He doesn’t know why he keeps doing this. 

After George shrugs his coat on, Benedict gets up and grabs his wrist. George physically recoils and Benedict frowns. He soothingly rubs his thumb over George’s knuckles and reels him into a hug. George lays his head on Benedict’s shoulder and breathes in the scent of his spicy, day-old cologne. 

“You were so good for me, tonight,” Benedict whispers. “Thank you.” George falters and he swallows, trying to wet his dry mouth. 

“You’re welcome,” he finally says. Then, after a beat of silence: “Thanks.” 

Benedict chuckles and kisses his cheek. It’s the nicest he’s ever been, and George hates himself for flushing with the praise and gentle touches. He hates himself for wanting Benedict. 

But it’s what he deserves. 

What he needs. 

The pain—it’s the only way that George can remind himself that he’s still a sane, living and breathing human being. It’s the only time he doesn’t feel numb. 

After a few more seconds, Benedict releases George from the hug and affectionately straightens his tie. 

“I’ll see you next week, baby.” He presses a kiss to George’s forehead and George’s stomach lurches. 

“Have a nice week,” George says, not knowing what else to say. He turns to go, but Benedict’s voice stops him. The sweet, gentle tone is replaced with something harder—something more familiar. 

“I would stay away from that Alex Hamilton if I were you. He seems like trouble.” George bristles and nods tersely. 

“Of course. Good night, Benedict.” 

George slips through the door and walks down the long hallway, his steps unnaturally loud in the echoing, marble hallway. He feels so sick that he has to stop and lean against the wall, pressing his cheek against the cool wall. He takes some time to just _breathe_. 

He fucking hates Benedict Arnold. 

\---

George’s bed is soft and his bedroom is warm, but every time he closes his eyes and dozes off, he’s jolted awake again by some short, anxious nightmare. He rolls over and presses his face into the pillow. All he wants is to sleep. He barely remembers what it feels like to get a good night’s sleep. What a luxury. 

After an hour of tossing and turning, George groans in frustration and sits up. He can feel a sob building in his chest and he tries hard to swallow it down. He’s tired of crying; he _hates_ crying. 

But then he shifts and his ass twinges in pain and it’s just _too much_. 

George buries his face in his hands and sobs. 

How did he get here? 

He tries not to think about it too hard—his long list of failures—because that just sends him tumbling over the edge, and he’s getting tired of hauling himself back up. He tries not to think about how he let Nate down. 

Nate would be so disappointed in him. 

George deserves it. All of it: Benedict’s stinging slaps, the nightmares, the flashbacks. 

He deserves it because he couldn’t tell Nate ‘I love you.’ He couldn’t save Nate. He couldn’t handle coming home. He can’t even fucking talk about it in the group sessions. He’s told Benedict some of the details, but not much. Every time he goes to _really_ talk about it, the words get caught in his throat.

_“I loved a man and didn’t tell him. He died not knowing that I loved him. I watched him die right in front of me. I held his dead body in my lap. I didn’t know real pain until that day.”_

George falls asleep with his tears still salty and warm on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love my sad emo George, but y'all already knew that.
> 
> I hope that I'm writing bottom George realistically.
> 
> Comments are always appreciated!


	3. An Ethical Quandary

George cautiously wraps his hands around the steaming mug and relaxes back in the couch. Martha is sitting next to him and she turns to look at him, arching an eyebrow and silently asking him what’s wrong. She’s always been able to read him, from the first day they met in school. Martha always knows. 

When George still doesn’t say anything, she sighs and reaches over to squeeze his knee. 

“George, what’s going on? You haven’t been answering your phone.” George stares into his mug so he doesn’t have to meet her eyes. “George?” she prods gently. “I’m worried about you.” 

“I’ve just had a rough couple of weeks,” he finally says softly, mumbling the words into his tea. “I’m sorry.” Martha sighs and pats his knee. 

“You don’t have to apologize. I’m sorry things have been rough lately.” She pauses and takes a sighing breath. “Are you still seeing Benedict after the sessions?” George immediately bristles and sets his mug down with a thunk. Some of the still-steaming tea sloshes out and forms little brown puddles on the coffee table. Martha startles and grabs his arm, halting his movements. “ _George_ ,” she says sternly. “Look at me.” George reluctantly meets her eyes before hanging his head. 

“You told me that you wouldn’t judge me.” 

“George—”

“ _No_ ,” George snaps, raising his head back up to glare at Martha. “You said that you weren’t going to judge who I dated, and that includes Benedict. I’m _fine_ , Martha. I’m a grown ass man, and I can take care of myself. Benedict is fine. I like him.” 

The lie burns like acid on his tongue, and he can taste bile in the back of his throat. 

Martha sighs and rubs his back. “I’m just worried about you, George.”

“Well you don’t have to be.” George jerks away from Martha. “I don’t need you to baby me anymore. I’m okay, Martha.” 

“I don’t think you are, but you can keep lying to yourself if you want, George. It’s your life,” Martha says calmly. George clenches his teeth and squeezes his fists. A lump is forming in his throat and he tries to swallow it down. He refuses to cry in front of Martha right now.

“Thanks.” It’s all he can manage to say with his throat tightening and his chest aching. He hates how shaky his voice is. He sounds weak, defeated. Benedict is right about him—pathetic. 

“Do you want to go out to dinner tonight? It might be nice to get out of the apartment.” 

The suggestion is both unappealing and appealing at the same time and George bites his lip uncertainly. 

“Um, I don’t know. Maybe.” 

“I think it would be good for you. Come on, it’ll be fun.” Martha smiles at him and he suddenly feels a surge of appreciation for his oldest friend. He presses his lips together to try to stifle a sob. Martha’s forehead immediately creases and she reaches out for him, pulling him close. “George, what’s wrong?” she says, clearly a little taken aback. 

“I just really appreciate everything you’ve done for me.” He sniffs and shudders. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you. Coming home… it was so hard. It’s still _so fucking hard_ , but you’re always there.” He sucks in a deep, trembling breath and presses his face into the crook of Martha’s neck. She just shushes him and holds him close. 

She’s always been there to hold him together. 

** ~~~ **

_ One year ago _

George drags his feet off the plane, falling in line behind the rest of the guys already walking down the tarmac. It’s hot and muggy and he’s sweating in his uniform, a bead of sweat slowly rolling down the back of his neck. Behind him, Benjamin pokes him between his shoulder blades, and George cranes his neck back to look at him. Benjamin’s eyes are shiny with tears. 

“Can you fucking believe we’re home?” he asks. “It’s surreal.” George halfheartedly smiles. 

“I know; it’s crazy,” he says. He doesn’t sound particularly happy, but if Benjamin notices, he doesn’t say anything. 

As they reach the airline hanger, people start rushing forward and the line breaks down as guys sweep their wives and children into their arms. George’s stomach hurts. 

Then he sees her, standing in the middle of the moving crowd. She’s in a blue sunflower dress and it flutters in the wind. Her eyes are rapidly scanning the crowd, and George feels something in the air shift when they finally lock eyes. 

Something clicks and then they’re rushing toward each other, matching grins splitting their faces. He catches her around the waist and wraps her up in a tight hug, burying his face in her neck so he can smell the combination of sharp perfume and fruity body wash on her skin. 

“Oh my God, George,” she says. “Oh my God. I’ve missed you so much.” A hysterical laugh bubbles up in George’s throat and he squeezes her against him.

“Martha,” he chokes out. “It’s so good to see you. I didn’t think I’d get to see you again.” 

They pull out of the hug so they can look at each other. Tears are running down her face but her eyes are bright and smiling. 

“I love you. Thank you for coming home to me.” George’s breath hitches and he nods before hugging her again. 

They’ve known each other since they were in middle school. Practically brother and sister, minus the brief time they tried dating before George finally realized that he is most definitely gay. 

Martha is the one constant in his life. 

They stand there hugging, swaying like they’re caught in a breeze. 

For this one, brief, shining moment, everything feels okay. 

**~~~**

The restaurant is relatively quiet, peaceful in a low lighting and expensive red wine kind of way, and George sits back comfortably in his chair as Martha recounts something that happened at work Friday. He nods along politely, only half listening. He’s loosened up by the wine, warm and a little fuzzy, so he inevitably finds his mind drifting. 

“George?” 

He startles and narrowly avoids spilling his wine when Martha says his name, and she gives him a suspicious look. “How much have you had to drink?” she asks him, her eyes narrowing accusatorially. George bristles and pulls his glass purposefully closer to himself. 

“Not that much. I was just distracted.” Martha purses her lips but shrugs and plucks a piece of bread out of the basket. She butters it before looking back up at George. 

“What’s got you so distracted?” He flushes and hopes that the wine covers it up.

He’s been thinking about Alex. 

A lot—all week long. 

He’s actually looking forward to the session tomorrow, which is fucking ridiculous to him. He’s usually dreading the depressing little meetings all week.

Dreading seeing and fucking Benedict. Just thinking about it makes his ass twinge in pain and his face sting. But it also makes his stomach flutter and his cock twitch because, on some sick level, he can’t get enough of it: The pain, the acerbic hatred, the shame. 

He’s usually sick with anxiety before going across town to Angelica’s nice office with the ugly painting, but this week he’s excited. 

Excited to see Alex. 

George has already decided that he’s going to get Alex’s phone number. 

But he’s not going to tell Martha that, so instead, he shrugs nonchalantly and gets his own piece of bread. 

“Just stuff,” he says, his tone blasé. Martha arches her eyebrow suspiciously but drops the subject, and George tries his best not to think about Alex too much. 

He knows what thinking about Alex will do to him, because last night, feeling a little sleazy, he stroked himself off quick and dirty imagining Alex’s soft, golden skin and pretty eyes. After he came all over his hand and bare stomach, he quickly cleaned himself up and tried to push the thought of what he did out of his mind. It was a little creepy—a little pervy, too, considering that Alex is most likely at least 10 years younger than him. At 36, George isn’t old, but he’s not young, either. 

So he’s fantasizing about a guy he _just met_. Everything is fine. George is aggressively fine. 

When Martha and he part ways, George heads home and clumsily falls into bed, still a little buzzed from the wine at dinner. 

He jerks off thinking about Alex. Again. 

Everything is _fine._

\---

George gets to Angelica’s office purposefully early, running into Caleb Brewster, another one of the group attendees, outside the office building. He’s a nice guy—funny and jovial—but he’s been through some heavy shit. Captured by Al Qaeda operatives outside Baghdad. Kept as a POW for three years. Tortured to hell and back. George’s sad little problems pale in comparison, but whatever. 

“Hey George,” Caleb greets him as he holds the door open and motions for George to enter first. George smiles and nods as they walk through the polished lobby to the elevators. 

“Hey Caleb. How’s your weekend been?” George asks conversationally.

“Not too bad,” Caleb says as the elevator dings and they shuffle on. “Went out with some buddies and took my dog to the dog park.” George smiles politely, relieved once the elevator stops on the 6th floor and deposits them outside Angelica’s office door. He’s never liked small talk. 

Angelica’s secretary welcomes them with a smile and motions for them to head on back. They walk down the narrow hallway, and George’s stomach churns as he opens the conference room door, suddenly nervous to see Alex.

George pushes the door open and hesitantly steps in.

Then he sees Alex, sitting hunched over a book in the same seat as last week. The seat right next to George’s. 

Out of habit, George nervously scans the room for Benedict. He’s not here yet, and George’s shoulders sag in relief. The last thing he wants is to have Benedict breathing down his fucking neck. 

When he sits down, Alex looks over and grins. 

“Hey George,” he says before setting his book down. He kicks it under his chair before George can catch the title, but it’s thicker than the thin copy of Rousseau he had last week. George takes a steadying breath and smiles. 

“Hey. It’s nice to see you again.” He pauses and picks at a loose string on the hem of his shirt. “Did you have a good week?” Alex pulls a goofy face and laughs. 

“You sound like Angelica. I can’t answer that; I’ll give away all my best lines.” Alex waggles his eyebrows, and George laughs, simultaneously trying desperately not to stare at Alex’s lips.

“Fair enough,” he teases back, earning himself another dazzling grin. Alex’s tongue darts out to subconsciously lick his lips and _fuck_ , George doesn’t know if he’s going to be able to sit here without popping a boner. Christ. 

“What do you do, George?” Alex asks, snapping George out of his trance. George wipes his sweating palms off on his pants and shifts his weight. 

“I work for the Office of General Counsel, so I provide legal advice to EPA policy-makers. I also do some outside non-profit stuff. Right now I’m leading an initiative to get more recycling bins in public schools.” 

“Damn that’s fucking awesome. A man who cares about the environment is a man after my own heart.” 

George’s stomach drops and he swallows. If only. 

“It’s pretty rewarding work,” George says, ignoring the voice in his head screaming at him. 

_Get! His! Number! Hurry the fuck up you dumb asshole. GET HIS NUMBER._

“What about you?” 

“I recently started law school. I bartend on the side, which is a real bitch, by the way.” 

“I can only imagine.” George chuckles nervously and swallows. 

Then they’re both talking at the same time: 

“Look, can I get your phone number?” George says quickly.

“Would you like to grab drinks tonight?” Alex spits out. 

The two statements overlap and jumble together, and they both sit there staring at each, laughing breathlessly. 

“I’d love to,” George finally manages to answer. 

Then they exchange numbers and George feels so fucking giddy that he thinks he might implode. 

The feeling doesn’t last long.

When he hears Benedict’s limping gait, George is hit with an anxious wave of nausea so strong that it makes him clutch his stomach. Alex must notice because he frowns and glances at Benedict when he walks by. He’s in an obviously expensive gray suit and maroon tie, and God dammit, George hates him and the way he so calculatingly works to display his wealth. It’s like he needs the whole world to know exactly how fucking rich and powerful he is. How _shitty_ he is, working as a big lawyer for some filthy, life-ending, environment-killing coal company. 

George has never really thought about the ethical quandary of that. He’s an environmentalist fucking a guy who fights lawsuits filed by men riddled with disease from the toxic fumes they breathe in working underground 12 hours a day. 

What the _fuck_ is George doing with his life? 

As soon as the thought flashes in his mind, the anxiety shoots through him like an arrow, icy-hot and dizzying, and he has to swallow down a surge of bile that rises in his throat. His skin suddenly feels about three sizes too small, and the room floats away until it’s just a hazy background. George distantly hears himself informing Alex that he’s going to the bathroom, and then he’s hightailing it out of the conference room. 

He almost knocks Tallmadge over as he barrels down the hall to the bathroom. He’s worried that he might actually throw up, and his body is screaming at him to get his ass to a bathroom. 

He thanks whoever is in charge—God, the aliens, karma, Zeus—that the bathroom is a single stall, because as soon as the door is shut and clumsily locked behind him, he’s leaning over the toilet and heaving. His eyes water and his nose gets all snotty as he slowly lowers himself to the ground and kneels, hunching over the toilet as he coughs and vomits again. 

When he’s finally finished, he shakily flushes the toilet and scoots back to lean against the cool, marble wall. 

“Well that was fucking disgusting,” he mutters to the empty bathroom. 

“George? Hey, you alright? We’re about to start, and I just, uh, wanted to check on you or whatever.” 

Alex. 

He sounds nervous—timid—and if George didn’t feel so disgusting and embarrassed, he might find it cute. 

He sighs and hauls himself to his feet. When he looks in the mirror, he cringes. He’s a sight to behold: Eyes glassy, mouth slick with spit and vomit, tie askew. Jesus fucking Chris he’s such a mess. 

“I’m not feeling too well,” he says tiredly. “I think I’m going to head home. Y’all can start without me.” 

Alex is quiet on the other side of the door for a few seconds.

“Can I come in?” he finally says so softly that George can barely hear him over the running of the sink.

Even though he’s feeling disgusting and miserable, he unlocks the door and pulls it open. Alex immediately slips inside and shuts the door behind him. His forehead creases in concern and he shifts his weight back and forth. 

“I puked,” George says unnecessarily—the acrid smell of vomit is still hanging in the air—in an attempt to fill the silence. Alex’s frown grows deeper and his hand twitches forward like he wants to touch George. 

“Damn, I’m sorry. Are you feeling better?” George turns back to the mirror and straightens his tie. He watches Alex give him a once over in the mirror and, despite how crumby he feels, there’s a surge of want that burns low in his belly. He’s like some sexed up teenager. It’s pathetic. George shrugs and turns around to face Alex. 

“Kind of. I think I’m gonna head home, though. I’m still feeling a little… off.” George rocks back on his heels and chews the inside of his mouth. Alex gives him a tiny nod, and George thinks he sees his face fall. 

“Well I hope you feel better.” 

Alex’s disappointment is clear now—plain in his voice—and George inwardly curses himself and the Forces That Be. 

“Yeah…” George trails off and fiddles with his tie. 

Instead of leaving, Alex just stands there and wrings his hands before glancing up at the ceiling, as if he’s seeking some kind of guidance. When he looks back at George, his eyes are bright, glittering in the warm lighting of the bathroom. 

“Look, I don’t want to be a presumptuous tool or whatever, but that whole… storming out and puking thing… seemed a little anxiety induced, and I don’t know, I’m a pretty perceptive guy, and it seems like you got triggered when that Benedict guy walked in—” Alex pauses and takes a deep breath, and George clenches his jaw in an attempt to keep his face neutral. “I guess what I’m trying to say is,” Alex continues, “if Benedict is doing anything to you—if you two are involved in a negative way—there are, well, you shouldn’t have to put up with that shit.” George clenches his fists and tenses up.

“Thanks, but my sex life isn’t really any of your business,” he says brusquely, hating how _mean_ he gets sometimes. How defensive. 

Even when Benedict's not around, he's still able to fuck George over. 

Alex recoils, his eyes widening, and he holds his hands up in mock surrender. “I know, I know. I just thought… Well never mind. Feel better, George. We can get those drinks some other time if you want.” 

And then he’s gone, slipping back out through the door, and George lets out a frustrated groan. 

Sometimes it feels like he’s his own worst enemy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry my updates are so slow. Work is pretty time-consuming and I try to spend most of my free time out doing stuff in the city! 
> 
> To ppl who read my series YSH, I SWEAR I'm going to update it soon. Hopefully. Just hit a bit of a roadblock with it. I'll get back into it soon. 
> 
> Comments are always appreciated!


	4. Low Lights, Cold Nights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had lots of time to write this weekend, so here's another chapter! I had a lot of fun writing it tbh.

George thanks fucking God that he’s at home when the flashback hits. 

It’s like, one second George is sitting on his couch watching CNN’s Anderson Cooper kneeling in the dirt and flinching from bomb blasts in the distance, and then he’s back in Iraq with the smell of blood thick in his nose and the world exploding around him.

The sun is sweltering and bullets are whizzing past his ears and he feels sick with the knowledge that something horrible is about to happen. Somewhere a bomb goes off and dirt flies like a Dust Bowl storm. George needs to _leave_. His brain is pumping his system full of hormones, dumping obscene amounts of epinephrine and norepinephrine into his bloodstream. His whole body is vibrating, his skin feels too tight. _Fight or flight,_ his body tells him. _Make your fucking pick._

Except then his body seems to realize that no, he’s not in Iraq; he’s in his living room, sitting frozen on his couch with his muscles locked up tight. He lets out an embarrassing choking noise and snot blows out of his nose, slowly oozing down onto his lips. Disgusting. 

_I’m okay; I’m okay; I’m okay._

He chants it over and over again in his head, or maybe he’s saying it out loud. At this point, he doesn’t really know. 

He finally manages to move, his hand darting out to turn off the T.V. before it triggers him again. He can’t even handle watching the news anymore. What the fuck happened to him?

Now, even though the perceived threat is gone, he’s still on edge. Shaky. Nauseous. Scared. He needs to get out of the house but has nowhere to go. Martha is out with friends tonight. Benedict is an asshole. 

And then George remembers. 

He whips his phone out and hesitates, finger hovering over the call button. 

He calls Alex Hamilton. 

At first the phone rings and rings and rings, and George is worried that Alex won’t answer. But then George hears Alex’s voice in his ear, a little surprised, and he lets out a deep breath. 

“Hey, look, I’m sorry, but I just really need to get out of my house right now. Things are… things are bad. Can you, if you’re not busy, well—”

“George, hey, where do you live? I’ll meet you somewhere near you,” Alex says soothingly. George hesitates for half a second before he finds his voice again. 

“Capitol Hill. Near the Library of Congress.”

“Alright. Meet me outside the Clinton Building—that’s the one with the fountains, right? I get them mixed up—in half an hour.” George takes another steadying breath before nodding, belatedly realizing that Alex can’t see him. 

“Uh, yeah. Yeah. That’s the Clinton building. I’ll see you soon.” He pauses. “Thanks Alex.” 

“No problem George.”

The line goes dead and George slumps back into the couch. Then he looks down at himself with a start and hops up. He’s in a pair of ratty sweats and a t-shirt, which most definitely won’t do. He heads back to his bedroom and changes a few times before he settles on something simple: A pair of nice jeans and a soft, gray henley t-shirt that’s tight enough to show off his nice, toned arms. Or at least he thinks it is.

It’s a short walk from his townhouse to the Clinton building—a little over five minutes—so he takes his time walking. There’s a group of kids passing a soccer ball back-and-forth on the lawn outside the Shakespeare Library and George nods at them as he walks by. 

Alex is already there when George walks up, pinching a cigarette between his thumb and index fingers. When he sees George walking up, he startles and drops the cigarette down the sewer drain, smiling a little sheepishly. 

“Hey, sorry. I know it’s a horrible habit,” he says once George is in earshot. George just shrugs and stands beside him, sidestepping a group of tourists taking pictures in front of the sputtering fountains. The Capitol dome looms above them just over the tops of a few trees and George takes a second to admire the way it looks framed by a navy blue sky as a cold night rapidly descends on them. 

“Thanks for coming. I hope you weren’t too far away.” George sticks his hands in his pockets to fight off the sharp chilly air and rocks back on his heels. Alex shakes his head and smiles. 

“I live in Foggy Bottom near JB, so it was no big deal.” 

“You go to Joe Biden law school?” They start walking toward Capitol South Station. Alex nods and smiles. 

“Yep. I got offers from a few different places, but I was ready for a change and decided to come to D.C. Foggy Bottom seemed like a nice place and I liked JB, so here I am.” George nods and glances both ways before they walk across the street. 

“I’ve heard good things about it,” George says for a lack of anything else to say. They stop at the top of the escalator at Capitol South and George gives Alex a questioning look. “Do we know where we’re going?” Alex purses his lips and steps onto the escalator. 

“We could go to Dupont if you wanted. There’s this great little bookstore-cafe combination that has a damn good drink menu.” Alex shrugs and they go through the faregates, pushing past a group of confused tourists staring at their SmartTrip cards. 

Once they’re finally on the Orange line headed toward Vienna, they settle into a pair of seats. It’s one of the older trains, complete with the disgusting, worn down carpeted floors, and George grimaces. 

This close, he can smell the cologne Alex is wearing, something light and airy, almost floral. It’s intoxicating, and George shifts his thigh a little, pressing it against Alex’s. Alex’s jaw twitches and George’s stomach twists with lust. Fuck. 

“So what’s this place we're going to called?” George asks, breaking the tension that’s settled between them. Alex smiles and runs a hand through his hair. 

“Kramerbooks and Afterwards. It’s awesome. I go there all the time. I honestly blow all my money on books and drinks. It’s awful.” 

“I know the feeling. You definitely seem to be a particularly voracious reader. Where do you find the time?” Alex shrugs and smiles ruefully. 

“I don’t sleep much—insomnia is a bitch—so I usually get some free time. And I like to read on the metro.” Alex shrugs and stands when the train rolls into Metro Station for their transfer to the Red line.” They navigate their way to the Red line platform, standing close together to avoid the crowd. Metro Station is always a little crowded, especially on a Friday night.

There’s an annoying amount of time until the next train, so they settle in and walk a little ways down the platform to wait. George clears his throat and tugs on the hem of his shirt. 

“Did I miss much last week? I didn’t mean to storm out like that… I was kind of an asshole. I’m sorry about that, by the way.” Alex smiles a little closed-mouth, hint of a smile. 

“It’s alright. I get it. Though you did miss Henry’s big victory. I’m not exactly up to speed on the whole situation, but apparently he talked to his wife and she’s not having an affair.” George immediately feels a surge of satisfaction and something close to _pride_ for Henry, which is a little fucking weird. He should’ve known that group therapy would have some weird psychological effects. 

“That’s really good for him. He’s been struggling with that for a while.” Alex nods before looking up at George. 

“Do you have a boyfriend or anything? I know you mentioned… someone… at the meeting…” Alex trails off and bites his lip. George takes a deep breath and nods tersely. 

“Yeah. I had a boyfriend back in Iraq. I’m single now.” Alex must realize that this isn’t a good topic of conversation, because he swallows and nods quickly. 

“Gotcha. I was recently broken up with a few months ago. Like I said, a big wake up call for me.” 

Thankfully, the train rolls up and they shuffle on, having to stand this time. Alex is pressed up against him and George prays to _someone_ that he doesn’t pop a boner with Alex’s ass pressed up against his crotch.

He thinks about disgusting things: His grandmother’s dentures, chunky vomit, raw sewage. Anything to keep his mind off of Alex’s warm body and the things he could do to George. George distantly wonders if Alex would top for him, and _fuck_ George feels himself starting to stiffen in his pants. 

Then, thank God, the train stops and they can get off. George practically runs over an old lady with a cane as he surges forward. He can’t get off the train fast enough. 

Once he stumbles out onto the platform, he takes a deep breath and waits for Alex. 

If Alex noticed anything on the train, he doesn't mention it. George happily lets it go. 

The walk to the cafe is quick, and George follows Alex in. The bookstore is teeming with customers, and George chuckles when he catches Alex hungrily eyeing the History section. George leans over to whisper in his ear, mentally filing away the way Alex tenses up when George speaks. 

“Lets look around a little before we eat,” he suggests. Alex nods eagerly and cranes his neck back to flash George a smile. They both shuffle over to the History section, and George clasps his hands behind his back as he scans the titles. A book about the evolution of political parties catches his eyes and he gently tugs it off the shelf. He idly flips through it, scanning the first couple of pages. 

“Found anything?” 

George startles when Alex walks up, and he closes the book to show him the title. 

“Yeah, this one seems interesting. He eyes the stack of books Alex is cradling in the crook of his elbow. “I see you found something too,” he says, just the hint of a teasing lilt in his voice. Alex grins.

“I told you that I have a fucking problem.” He sets the books on a display table and holds them up to show him. There’s a book on the new, 21st century interpretation of the constitution, something on the “lost years” that President Obama spent at Kings College (now Columbia), and a book on globalization’s effect on the blue collar worker throughout history. George nods appreciatively. 

“I’ve read that one on Obama and it’s really good. I feel like I know him as a person after reading it.” Alex nods and reverently runs his finger over the handsome, embossed book jacket.

“I’ve been meaning to get it, but I honestly don’t need to buy these. I’m running low on my budget for the month.” He smiles regretfully and shrugs. “Oh well.” George frowns and stacks the books back up.

“I’ll get them,” he says nonchalantly, keeping his tone blasé. Alex’s eyes bug out a little and he shakes his head fervently. 

“Hey, no, you don’t have to do that,” he says quickly, reaching for the books, but George shakes his head and lays a hand on top of the stack.

“I insist. You came all the way to Capitol Hill to come hang out with me after I was a massive ass to you last week. It’s the least I can do.” Alex glowers at him before sighing and motioning to the register. 

“Alright, fine. But I meant it when I said it was no big deal meeting you. I know what it’s like… when it hits you and you know that you need to get the fuck out. I wasn’t going to say no and leave you feeling like that.” George nods and falls into line, swallowing. 

“Thanks,” he says, his voice suddenly a little thick with emotions. He sets the stack of books down on the counter and tries to ignore the little look of shock on Alex’s face when the total comes out to a little over $100. George hands over his card and answers that yes, he wants a bag. Fuck the (admittedly genius) bag tax. 

After the books are purchased they head down the stairs to the cafe. Alex is right; it’s a nice looking space, lots of windows and little candles on the tables. A waitress seats them and hands them the menu. 

“I personally like A Cocktail of Two Cities and The Mango and the Sixpence,” Alex says as he glances at the drink menu, “but I’m a sweet cocktail kind of guy so.” He shrugs. 

“I might get the Gin Gatsby,” George says, chuckling. “Very creative names. I’d like to meet the guy who came up with them.” Alex nods and smiles politely when the waitress walks up. They order their drinks and George starts looking over the dinner menu. He’s not particularly hungry, but he knows that the alcohol will go straight to his head if he drinks on an empty stomach. 

As if he’s reading George’s mind, Alex knocks their knees together under the table to get George’s attention. 

“You wanna split something? I’m not terribly hungry.” George nods thankfully. He gets tired of having to come up with excuses as to why he can barely manage to choke down toast some nights. 

It’s nice—going out with someone who understands what it’s like. 

“That would be great. You can pick, if you want.” He takes a sip of his drink once the waitress sets them down and hums in appreciation. “This is really good.” Alex’s eyes sparkle in the low light of the room, and the candle flickers, throwing shadows across his face. 

“They have really good drinks here. It’s part of the reason I love it so much.” He takes a sip of his own drink before dropping his head back down to look at the menu. “I don’t know if you’re into this kind of stuff, but the veggie lasagna is really good.” 

“That sounds great,” George says. “Are you a vegetarian?” Alex pulls a face and laughs. 

“I swing back-and-forth. Some weeks I am and others I’m not. I’m horrible at being consistent.” George nods and stabs his lime with his straw. 

“I know what you mean.” He takes a hearty sip of his drink and wipes his mouth off with his napkin. “So, I’m taking it that you’re interested in politics?” Alex’s eyes light up at the topic of conversation. 

“Absolutely. I’m a political junkie, major policy wonk.” He grins. “Are you?” 

“Definitely.” George finishes the rest of his drink and smiles, already feeling a little loosened up. 

“I figured you would be,” Alex says, and George wants to ask Alex what he means—he has a foreboding feeling that he already knows—but then the waitress is there and Alex rattles off the order and George orders another drink. Once they’re alone again, George leans forward on his elbows and cocks an eyebrow.

“What did you mean when you said you figured I’d be into politics?” Alex hesitates and looks askance. 

“Well, damn, you’re going to think I’m so creepy,” Alex chuckles, “but I looked you up after we met. I thought your name sounded familiar. Your dad was the first black senator from Virginia. You probably ate, slept, and breathed politics growing up.” 

Fuck. 

George hates talking about his father. Hates the way it makes his stomach hurt. 

He smiles a little uneasily and nods. 

“Yeah, that’s my dad,” he says. Alex must pick up on his discomfort, because he quickly changes the topic. 

“What do you like to do in your free time? You know, when you’re not saving the environment.” George takes a sip of his fresh drink. 

“Hmm, I like to ride horses and garden; I run and play basketball. Your usual stuff.” 

“You garden?” Alex raises his eyebrows and looks at George over the rim of his glass. George rolls his eyes and smiles good-naturedly. 

“Don’t give me that look. It’s relaxing.” Alex tips his head back and laughs. 

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you, George Washington?” 

George hopes the low lighting covers up his blush. 

“Yeah, well, what do _you_ like to do?” 

“I’m in law school; I don’t have free time.” Alex grins and drums his fingers on the table. “No, but actually, I enjoy cooking and writing. I guess you could say I’m a writer, but that makes me sound like a tool.” 

“What do you write?” 

“Mostly essays. Some short stories. The occasional opinion piece.” He shrugs as if it’s no big deal, but George widens his eyes. Damn.

“That’s really impressive Alex. Who do you write for?” Alex ducks his head and smiles a little shyly. 

“ _The New Yorker_ , _The Washington Post_ , sometimes _The New York Times_.” He says it so casually, as if it’s _no big deal_ that he’s a student writing for major, national publications. 

“Well fuck.” George shakes his head. “How old are you?” 

“26.” Alex shrugs and picks at an invisible piece of lint on his sleeve. “I’ve always been a little ahead of the game. I’m not a very patient guy.” 

10 years between them. That’s not too bad. 

George licks his lips and tosses the rest of his drink back, ice clattering against the glass. Alex quirks an eyebrow and smiles amusedly. “You know, it’s a little rude to get drunk on the first date,” he teases. George smirks and shivers when Alex presses his thigh against George’s under the table. 

“I wasn’t aware that this was a date—” 

Their waitress is suddenly there with their lasagna, and George shivers again when Alex wraps his lips around his fork and gives George a smoldering look. 

“It can be whatever we want it to be.” 

\---

“So I don’t know if you’re into this kind of stuff, but there’s a great gay bar not too far from here,” Alex says once they leave the restaurant, both of them a little buzzed. George blinks to clear the hazy feeling settling behind his eyes and nods. 

“I’d be down for that,” he says. Alex grins and leads the way. 

When they get to the bar, George eyes it warily. He can already tell by the guys lined up outside that he’s not exactly the target demographic for this particular bar, but Alex is already digging his ID out of his wallet, so George acquiesces and follows. Luckily Alex has a backpack and they stuff the bag of books down in it after they get inside. 

George shifts his weight a little uncomfortably once he looks around. It’s less of a bar and more of a club, with a dark dance floor filled with bumping and grinding guys in tight pants and coiffed hair. Alex rolls his eyes and tugs George toward the bar, grabbing his hand. 

He has to remind himself to breathe. 

The guy behind the bar is cute and flirty, and he waggles his hips a bit as he makes George’s whiskey sour. Alex already has his drink, something fruity that George didn’t quite catch the name of, and is nodding his head along to the pulsing music. 

George pays for his drink and follows Alex over to stand by the wall, sliding and wiggling in between gyrating hips and flailing arms. It’s almost uncomfortably loud inside the room, and the mass of bodies is hiking the temperature up. It smells like sweat and musk, and George absently wipes his forehead off on the back of his hand. 

Alex bumps George's hip and smiles at him. “You’re so tense,” he practically shouts over the music. “Relax and have some fun.” George chuckles nervously and finishes off his drink in two big gulps, which earns him an enthusiastic whoop from Alex. 

He tries to ignore the creeping anxiety clawing at his throat and heads back to the bar to order a shot. It burns on the way down, but he knows it’ll be worth it. He can do this. He can be casual. He can have fun like a normal fucking human being.

When he manages to shove his way back over to Alex, he finds him engaged in a conversation with some pouty, douchey-looking red head in a baggy Lakers jersey and tight skinny jeans that hug his stick-thin legs. Alex leans in and lays a hand on Douche Boy’s arm, and jealousy burns in George’s stomach. 

He slides up and touches Alex’s elbow. “Hey,” he murmurs. Douche Boy narrows his eyes and George glares at him. Alex turns around and they’re standing so close that their chests are pressed together. George shivers, his cock twitching in his pants. 

“Hey,” Alex breathes. 

George can smell the fruity alcohol on his breath and he has to close his eyes. It’s too real. 

When he opens his eyes, Douche Boy is gone. Sayōnara sucker. 

Alex grins and motions to the dance floor with his head. “You wanna get away from the bar?” George swallows and nods. 

“Sure. Sounds good.” 

They slip their way into the crush of bodies. Beside George, a guy done up in thick makeup is grinding on some big, beefy latino, and George smiles nervously at the look they both shoot him. George likes sex as much as the next guy, but he’s not the most adventurous guy around. Threesomes are a little much. 

When he turns back around, he shudders. Alex is swaying to the music, moving his hips in a way that makes his ass stick out, and George briefly wonders how good it would feel to have Alex sit on his face. 

He shakes his head to dispel the image. Gross. He needs to get a fucking grip. 

Except then Alex’s hands are on George’s hips and they’re dancing together, and George has no other option except to drape his arms over Alex’s shoulders and go with it. Alex is staring up at him through his eyelashes, his lips poking out in a smoldering pout and George almost chokes. 

“Alex.” 

Alex grins and slides his hand down to squeeze George’s ass. 

“Yes?” he leers. 

_Fuck._

“Are you—we barely know each other.” Alex rolls his eyes and starts to massage George’s ass and George’s eyes flutter shut. He can’t hold back the embarrassing little whine that slips out from between his lips. His cock is slowly hardening in his pants and the room is spinning and Jesus Christ, he feels everything start to unravel around him. It’s all too fast, too much. 

George grabs Alex’s wrists and squeezes them. Alex’s hips stutter to a stop and he frowns. They stand there staring at each other, the only ones not moving in the pulsating crowd. 

“Is everything okay?” Alex asks, standing on his tiptoes to lean into George’s ear. The breath catches in George’s throat and he nods. 

“I just need… Can we slow down for a second.” Alex nods and starts to soothingly run his hand up and down George’s side. 

“Of course. I’m sorry. I thought—well, I thought we were on the same page.” George groans in frustration and shakes his head. 

“No, we are.” George squeezes his eyes shut and sighs loudly through his nose. “I’m 10 years older than you and we barely know each other.” 

“So? I think you’re hot. You obviously think I’m hot.” Alex cups George through his pants, and he rocks into Alex’s hand.

“I do,” he breathes. 

“Then relax and let me make you feel good. I know that’s what you want, George. I can tell you like getting fucked.” Alex’s breath is hot against his ear and George’s breath hitches. 

“Yeah?” It’s all he can manage to say, because Alex’s hand is back on his ass and George is fast on his way to being fully hard in his pants. 

When Alex kisses him, it’s hungry and soft at the same time. Aggressive tongue pushing into George’s mouth, full lips pressing against George’s hard enough to hurt. George can taste the alcohol on Alex's tongue, tangy and sweet. The kiss is feverish in it’s intensity, but there’s no teeth or sharp, stinging pain. 

It’s so unlike any kiss he’s ever had with Benedict—

_Benedict._

A bolt of fear shoots through him and Alex must notice because he pulls away and presses a soft kiss to George’s jaw. 

“You still good?” he whispers.

George doesn’t want to think about how mad Benedict would be if he knew what George was doing right now. The thought makes George’s blood run cold and he squeezes his eyes shut. When did this happen? George’s never let someone control him like this. He’s so tired of this shit.

Fuck Benedict. He doesn’t own George. 

George is a grown ass man. He can do whatever the fuck he wants. 

He stares down at Alex before dragging him into another kiss. 

“I’m great.” 

Alex grins and grabs his hand. 

“Lets go to the bathroom,” he says as he starts quickly pulling George through the crowd. George stumbles after him and tries to keep up. His head is fuzzy with alcohol and lust, and it’s hard to keep up with everything that’s happening around him. 

Except then he’s being pushed into a dimly lit bathroom and shoved up against the door. Alex reaches down and flicks the lock on the single-stall bathroom before he dives back in and devours George. Alex kisses like he’s on a mission, and George gladly lets him lead the way.

Alex gropes for George’s belt and it clinks loudly in the bathroom as Alex undoes it. “Jesus fuck, you’re so hot George. So God damn hot.” Alex presses a hot, open mouth to George’s throat, and George rubs himself against Alex’s hand as he grinds his palm into George’s crotch and rubs his thumb over the wet spot on his boxers. 

“Alex please,” he gasps as Alex shoves his jeans down and rubs him over his boxers. George knocks his head back against the wall and grits his teeth.“ _Alex_.” He grabs Alex’s shirt, wrinkling it in his fists. “Oh God, Alex. You’re so fucking—you’re so _good_ ,” he rasps. “Please—I need—” He chokes off into a moan as Alex grinds his palm into George’s crotch again. 

“What do you need, George?” Alex whispers. “Tell me what you need. We can do whatever you want.” George keeps grinding into Alex’s hand and whimpers.

“Alex, _fuck,_ ” George groans. Alex hums and scrapes his teeth across George’s throat, and it’s enough to make George keen. 

“You want my hand baby?” Alex whispers as he dips his hand into George’s boxers. He cups him and squeezes his cock, and _fuck_ it’s so good that George’s legs buckle. They both laugh breathlessly as he regains his footing. Then Alex is pushing his boxers down and George whimpers as the cold air hits the tip of his cock. He’s standing at full attention, dribbling precum like nobody’s fucking business, and Alex grins at him. “Oh George,” he purrs as he wraps a hand around George’s cock. “Look at you.”

George’s hands fly up to grab onto Alex’s thin waist, his fingers digging into the soft skin there. “Alex _please_ ,” he half-coherently begs as Alex starts to leisurely stroke him, grip too loose to garner any real friction. Alex chuckles darkly and sucks a bruise into George’s neck. 

“Listen to you,” Alex croons. “So desperate for me that I’ve already got you begging.” George’s toes curl painfully in his shoes when Alex starts to pump his hand, twisting his wrist on the way up. George squeezes his waist and whimpers. The pressure is painful, almost too much—unbearable—and George’s starting to pant as he feels himself getting close. His stomach is burning white hot with need, and his muscles are clenched so tightly that his leg is starting to cramp. 

“Oh my God,” George gasps when Alex rubs his thumb over his tip, coating his thumb in George’s precum. 

“Go on and let go George,” he whispers. “Let me see you come. You’re being so good for me.” 

George groans and bucks into Alex’s hand, his hips stuttering forward as he feels his balls tightening, and then he’s coming all over Alex’s hand, his cock pulsing _hard_. It jerks one, two, three, four times before his muscles start to relax. Alex wipes his hand off as George stands there panting. He’s dizzy in his post-orgasmic haze, and his legs suddenly buckle again. Alex catches him as he slump forward, and he pulls George into a hug. “Shh, George,” he shushes him as he starts to rub George’s back. “You did so well. You were such a good boy for me.” 

Alex sounds so fucking wrecked. It’s too real. 

George blinks sluggishly and reaches out to cup Alex’s cock through his pants. 

Then he’s shoving Alex’s pants down and dropping to his knees. 

Alex comes down his throat, hot and bitter, within minutes. 

George fucking loves it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone is still enjoying this! I suck at slow burn so here they are, but don't worry, more shit is going to go down.
> 
> Clinton building is actually the Jefferson building; and Joe Biden University is George Washington University. I would've made it Barack Obama University, but BOU just doesn't sound good. Sorry Barry. 
> 
> Kramerbooks & Afterwards is legit the best place ever, and if you live in D.C. please go. It's one of my fave places to go. (I too have a book problem). 
> 
> Comments are always appreciated :-)


	5. Two for the Price of One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-con and (somewhat) under-negotiated kink.

George wakes up the next morning with a stomachache and a sore throat. Drinking booze and sucking cock will do that to you. 

As he showers, he tries to fight off the guilt coiling in his gut, but there’s a little voice in the back of his head that he just can’t tune out. 

_What will Benedict think; what will Benedict think; what will Benedict think._

It’s like the thought is on a never ending loop in his brain, some sort of intrusive thought that’s hell bent on driving him crazy. 

Anxiety is clawing at his throat and he has to lay down on his bed before he falls over. He’s starting to get that spacey, dizzy feeling he always has right before an anxiety attack and he tries to breathe through it. He’s fine. Benedict never has to know. It’s _fine._

He startles when his phone rings shrilly, piercing the quiet of the room, and he blearily looks at the screen. It’s Alex. George’s hand shakes a little as he answers it. 

“Hey,” George says, trying to control the tremor in his voice. 

“Hey,” Alex chirps back. “I don’t know if you’ve eaten yet, but if you haven’t then we could get brunch if you wanted. I know a great little cafe—”

“Alex, I can’t.” 

Alex falters and falls silent. The only sound left is his quiet breathing, just a slight whooshing in George’s ear. 

“Why?” he finally asks quietly. George squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. 

“Benedict. He’s very possessive.” George chuckles nervously and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry.” Alex makes a frustrated huffing noise and George braces himself for a fight. 

“That’s bullshit, George. You two aren’t dating, right? You can’t let him tell you what to do—”

“Alex—”

“ _No_ , I’m talking,” Alex says sharply. “Listen, I know that you said your sex life was none of my business, but since I had my cock down your throat yesterday, I’d say it’s my business now. I really don’t think you need to see Benedict again, George. He sounds really fucking emotionally abusive, and that’s the last thing someone struggling with PTSD needs.”

“I’m fine,” George says immediately, anger burning in his chest. “I just—Benedict and I have been… together… for a while. I’d feel bad if I didn’t check with him first.” 

“Oh please,” Alex snaps. “Have you ever been on an actual date with him?” George grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to stave off the headache building at the base of his skull. 

“Alex, please. I don’t really want to talk about this.” George rubs his eyes hard enough to create an explosion of lights on the backs of his eyelids. Alex sighs irritatedly.

“Okay, well, will you at least get something to eat with me? Surely Benedict will be okay with you getting food with another human being,” Alex says a little snidely. 

George ignores the anxiety that twists in his stomach. Benedict doesn’t have to know. 

_I can do what I want. It’s my life_ , George reminds himself. 

It’s harder to believe without the liquid courage helping him along. 

\---

George meets Alex outside Farragut West Station and they walk the short distance to a waffle restaurant that Alex claims has the best brunch on earth. 

“They have waffle sandwiches and they’re so fucking good. I usually get the sweet ones—their Nutella is like imported from Europe I think—but I get the feeling that you’re more of a savory guy. The ones with egg in them are all really good too.” 

Alex is rambling and George lets him. It’s easier that way. George isn’t really in a talking mood—can already tell that it’s going to be one of _those_ days. The kind of day where, even though the sky is blue, it might as well be pouring down rain because everything feels hazy and gloomy. The Zoloft commercials on the T.V. are right. It’s just like having his own, personalized rain cloud hovering above his head, following him wherever he goes. 

_And if you call within the next 10 minutes, Pfizer will send you a second depression cloud for free! That's two for the price of one!_

There’s a disconnect between George and the rest of the world. He’s physically there, but it doesn’t feel like it. Everything is just happening around him. He’s in a glass box. Submerged under water. Trapped— “George?”

George blinks when Alex squeezes his hand, and he comes to a confused stop as he belatedly takes in his surroundings. They’re standing in the doorway of what looks like a newer restaurant, decorated in a trendy, modern style. A disgruntled couple throws George and Alex a nasty look as they elbow their way through the shiny glass doors, and Alex tugs George out of the way. They stand off to the side, squeezed in between the wall and an outdoor table. Behind the window is a wall of huge Nutella jars stacked on top of each other.

“Sorry,” George finally says softly, his voice nearly covered up by a bus screeching to a stop down the road. Alex’s eyebrows knit in confusion and he rubs little circles into the back of George’s hand with his thumb. 

“It’s alright. You don’t have to apologize,” he murmurs. “Are you okay?” 

“I don’t know.” George blinks and stares at the glowing, neon Open sign behind Alex’s head.

It feels good to be honest. He gets so fucking tired of lying. 

“Lets just go back to my place. I’ve got some eggs and stuff. I’ll cook.” George shakes his head and glances back at the crowded restaurant. The line is out the door now, and a cacophony of voices and music is spilling out onto the street. A child sitting in a stroller starts screaming, and George winces.

“Are you sure?” he asks, reluctantly meeting Alex’s eyes. Alex smiles and squeezes his hand one more time before letting it go.

“One hundred percent. I’m honestly not even that hungry. C’mon, it’ll be fun. I never have guests over. Just a warning, though. My place is pretty fucking sad. Cheap as hell with all the wear and tear to prove it.” 

George just nods and lets Alex lead him through the crowded streets. His rain cloud dutifully follows. 

\---

“You can take a seat on the couch,” Alex says as they hang their coats on the small hooks by the door. George nods and takes a look around. Alex’s apartment is small and a little dilapidated, but George can tell that he puts work into making it nice. Bright art hangs on the walls and the furniture looks very comfortable. None of it necessarily matches, but it seems to fit Alex’s personality: A whirlwind of styles and ideas. 

“You sure you don’t want any help in the kitchen?” George asks. Alex raises his eyebrows and motions to the tiny kitchen. 

“Even if I did, we wouldn’t be able to both fit back here. You can chill. It won’t take me long to scramble some eggs. Do you like cheese in yours?” George plops down on the couch in front of the small T.V. and nods. 

“Yes please.” He relaxes back against the couch and closes his eyes. The couch is even more comfortable than it looks, and, George thinks, he could probably fall asleep right here if he wanted to. 

“You doing alright today?” Alex asks over the sound of the eggs sizzling in the pan. George cranes his neck over to look at Alex and tries not to stare at the way his jeans fit just right, accentuating his ass. Jesus Christ, George wants to taste Alex’s ass _so badly._ Screw the eggs, he’ll eat ass for breakfast. 

He tears his eyes away from Alex and focuses on the slightly off-white cabinets beside his head. One of them is missing a knob. 

His scummy, cave man brain needs to chill. 

“I’m doing okay,” George says. Alex huffs sarcastically as he sprinkles cheese on the eggs.

“You don’t seem okay. It’s fine if you’re not having a good day. I don’t care. You don’t have to pretend with me.” 

“Right.” George worries his bottom lip between his teeth and picks at an invisible piece of lint on his pants. “I guess I’m a little off.”

“Off like how?” Alex asks as he brings over the plates of eggs. George takes the plate Alex hands him and halfheartedly takes a bite.

“Thanks,” he murmurs. “And you know… just _off_. Kind of spacey and disconnected. I don’t really know how to describe it.” Alex nods and shovels an enthusiastic bite of eggs into his mouth.

“Yeah I gotcha,” he says around the mouthful. “It’s like you’re living in black and white, but no one knows it. And it _sucks_ because you know what it’s like to see color and you used to see it all the time, but now everything is just dull and muted and gray.” He shrugs and stabs his fork into another bite of eggs. “Or that’s how I see it at least.” 

“I’ve always described it as having my own, personal rain cloud following me around.” George sets his half-eaten plate of eggs down on the coffee table and shifts his weight. “But that’s just me.” 

“No, I totally feel that. That’s a good description.” Alex stacks their plates up and turns to face George on the couch. “But anyway, I’m sorry you’re not having a good day. If you want to be alone then I totally get it.” 

“I don’t really know what I want,” George says honestly. 

Damn, when did he start being so honest? Maybe it’s the group therapy. 

Or maybe it’s the way Alex is looking at him—like George is the most important person in the world. Someone worth listening to. 

Alex hesitantly takes George’s hand and brushes his knuckles with a soft kiss. “Well I’m here if you ever need anything.”

“Thanks.” It’s all he can manage to say. 

\---

George arrives at Angelica’s office just in time for the session, planned it that way so he wouldn’t have to talk to Alex or Benedict before they start. He hustles into the conference room and plops down in his seat, mumbling a quick apology to Angelica, who just smiles fondly. 

Alex shoots him a quick smile and George’s chest feels tight because _fuck_ he wants Alex to smile at him like that all the time. It makes George feel special. He hasn’t felt special in a long time. 

Across the circle, Benedict’s lips curl into a sneer, and George feels nauseous. Benedict cocks his head to the side—a silent question—and George just averts his eyes, choosing to stare at the ugly abstract painting instead. 

Then Angelica is clapping her hands and starting off the session, pointing to Charles Lee to start them off. Charles doesn’t talk much, probably because he realizes that no one likes him. He’s an odd guy—sloppy and clumsy, a real shitty personality. George feels bad for hating him, because they’re all just a bunch of sad, suffering fuckers, but Charles Lee… there’s a certain _je ne sais quoi_ about him that makes George’s skin crawl. 

Charles fiddles with his stained shirt collar and glances around the circle, nervous eyes shifting back and forth, before he finally speaks. George tries to tune out his scratchy voice as he recounts some spiteful, bitter story about his wife not wanting to fuck him anymore. George can’t believe he pays _money_ to come to these shit show sessions.

After Charles finally finishes his pissy little tirade, Angelica turns and smiles at George. 

“Hi George, how was your week?” she asks, her voice sweet and soothing. George clears his throat, bides his time. 

Benedict smirks again, brown eyes darkening until they’re almost black. 

Alex reaches over and lays a comforting hand on George’s knee, and George watches the way Benedict’s eyes flash with anger, sees him set his jaw. 

“My week was okay,” George says after a few seconds.

“Can you expand a little for us? Did you experience any flashbacks?” Angelica is still smiling at him, her face frozen in some sort of polaroid snapshot. Anxiety coils in his gut and George swallows. 

“I, uh, my anxiety was pretty bad this week. And I had a flashback Friday.” George chuckles nervously. Alex squeezes his knee. Benedict glares at him. Angelica nods encouragingly. 

“Will you share your flashback with us?” 

“I really don’t want to,” George says immediately, wincing at how weak and pathetic he sounds. Angelica keeps the smile on her face and nods again. 

“That’s okay, but I really think it would help.” 

“I really wish you’d share, George,” Benedict sneers. “I’m sure it would help you feel better. Everyone here cares about you.” 

Benedict lets his legs fall open a little more—a suggestion of dominance. A message to George. 

_You weak fucker_ , Benedict’s body posture seems to say. Taunting. Hateful. 

George feels nauseous. 

“I already told you. I watch Nate die,” George spits out, because he’s so tired of sitting here while Angelica tries to pry the truth out of him. What’s the point of obfuscating? Alex already knows he’s a mess. Benedict already knows he’s a sad, weak piece of shit. Might as well let everyone else in on the world’s worst-kept secret: George is falling apart at the seams. A ratty teddy bear left out in the rain. Well-loved to the point of decay. Nate ruined him with his love and his praise and his soft touches. Nate opened George up like a heart surgeon with a rib splitter and stole his fucking heart. And then he _died._ George gave Nate everythi—He rubs his face and stares at the painting. “I’m standing there with the bullets whizzing past me and then he’s getting shot dead right in front of me, hitting the ground like a bag of bricks. It’s so fucked up.” George takes a deep breath, and Alex rubs little circles into the inside of his knee. 

Angelica’s eyes light up like she just won the lottery, and Benedict leers—a little self-satisfied, taunting smile. 

“I’m so glad you shared that with us, Georgie,” Benedict says, his voice sickly sweet. “Don’t you feel better?” 

George laughs and shakes his head. “Sure.”

He fucking hates Benedict Arnold.

“Good job, George,” Alex says quietly. “Thanks for sharing.” He squeezes George’s hand and George squeezes back. 

Angelica must sense that George isn’t going to say anything else, so she moves onto Tallmadge and asks him about his mom situation. George takes a shaky breath. He fucking hates himself. 

His phone vibrates in his pocket and he pulls his hand out of Alex’s grasp so he can check it. 

_What did I tell you about staying away from Alex Hamilton? You know I don’t like anyone else messing with my Georgie._

George meets Benedict’s eyes and glares. 

\---

As soon as the session is over, George gets up and tugs his jacket on. He’s on fire. His nerve endings are exposed and frayed, sending his entire nervous system into code red. 

He needs to _leave._

But then Alex is touching his elbow and Benedict is calling his name, and George freezes. He schools his expression, rolls his shoulders back, assumes the position. A solider. A marble statue. He can do this. He can be strong.

“Are you busy tonight, Georgie?” Benedict purrs as he takes two long, limping strides to stand in front of George, crowding his space. 

“I don’t know,” George says. Benedict smirks and slides up even closer, overwhelming George’s senses until the only thing he can smell is Benedict’s spicy, expensive cologne. 

“George,” Alex whispers gently. “Lets go. Come on. Come with me.” 

He feels like he’s in some Shakespearian drama—trapped between two lovers vying for power. 

He’s always fancied himself the hero of Homer’s epic, but he’s not Odysseus after all. He’s Helen of Troy. 

Benedict grabs George’s bicep and squeezes hard enough to hurt, and George feels his resolve weakening. “George?” Alex prods, his voice taking on a tinge of desperation. “You’re okay. Come on.” 

Benedict squeezes his arm again. “George,” he warns. 

George steps toward Benedict and nods cordially at Alex. “I’ll see you next week.” 

Benedict leans into George’s ear, his lips brushing George’s sensitive skin. “Good boy.” 

George’s cock twitches. Benedict ushers him out the door. Alex frowns.

\---

The ride to Benedict’s is quiet and tense. George is on edge, nervously drumming his fingers on the center console, and Benedict is gripping the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles are white. George gulps and shifts his weight. 

“You’re not in charge of me, you know.” His voice sounds shockingly loud in the small, confined space, and he winces. Benedict’s jaw ticks. 

“Did you fuck him?” Benedict asks, ignoring George’s statement. George huffs a laugh and shakes his head. 

“No, but if I did, it wouldn’t be any of your damn business.” Now it’s Benedict’s turn to laugh, and as they roll up to a stop light, Benedict turns to leer at George. 

“Of course it’s my business, baby. I own your ass.” 

\---

As soon as they get into Benedict’s apartment, he’s shoving George against the door and sticking his thigh in between George’s legs. George grits his teeth as he fights the urge to grind down on Benedict’s leg. He stands completely still, trying to ignore the way his cock is rapidly filling out in his pants. Benedict pushes his thigh up higher, grinding it into George’s crotch, and George involuntarily clenches his muscles at the little shock of _need_ that burns in his stomach. 

“Don’t try to act like you don’t want me to fuck you, baby,” Benedict breathes in George’s ear before pulling him into a kiss. It’s gentler than the kisses they normally share, and George feels himself melting into it. Benedict’s mouth is so soft and warm that it’s easy to forget how sharp his kisses normally are. How ruthless and painful. 

George blinks and tries to clear his head, needing to ask _why_. Benedict is never this sweet, but here he is, gently nipping George’s jaw and shoving his leg up, encouraging George to grind down on it. “Come on Georgie, I know you want it. Just let yourself feel good.” George’s toes curl in his shoes as he grinds down on Benedict’s leg again, but then his leg is gone and he’s tugging George toward the bedroom. 

George goes willingly. 

They strip down efficiently, dumping their clothes into piles on the floor, and then they’re on the bed, all over each other. Benedict coaxes George to get on all fours and starts working him open with his tongue, using big long swipes that make George shudder and moan low in his throat. It’s fucking obscene the way Benedict starts to fuck George with his tongue, and George is a shaking mess after only 30 seconds of it. His leaking cock is hanging heavy in between his legs and he begs Benedict to touch him, pleads like a whiny child. 

“Benedict, please,” he says for the hundredth time. “ _Please_.” 

Finally, just when George thinks he’s about to lose his shit, Benedict tells him to roll over onto his back. George obediently repositions himself and stares up at Benedict through hooded eyes, suddenly wondering why he’d ever want to give this up. Benedict isn’t all bad. He can be nice. He cares. 

Except then Benedict slaps George across the face _hard_ and George cries out in surprise, instinctively flinching away. 

“You better not be fucking around with Alex Hamilton,” Benedict warns before slapping George again. “Your ass is mine, baby. All fucking mine.” He lands two more slaps, one on each cheek, before he's rolling on a condom, rubbing some lube over his cock, and ramming into George hard enough to jolt him out of place. George grunts and reaches up to grasp Benedict’s sturdy shoulders. 

“You can’t tell me what to do,” George says through gritted teeth. “Fuck you.” 

Instead of responding, Benedict wraps a hand around George’s neck, putting pressure on the hollow of George’s throat. George sucks in a startled breath and immediately seizes with panic. He’s never liked things around his neck. Whenever his father got particularly drunk and angry, he’d grab George up and squeeze his neck until there were bruises that George had to cover up with scarves and high collars. 

“I can do whatever I want to you,” Benedict spits as he squeezes a little harder and starts pounding into George. George’s hands come up to pry at Benedict’s fingers, but Benedict isn’t letting go until he wants to. 

“Benedict, please,” George says, a tinge of panic coloring his tone. “Let go of my neck.” George’s nose is starting to get snotty and his eyes are watering, but Benedict grins maniacally and continues his relentless pace. 

George’s cock is still hard and leaking, but any pleasure he was feeling is being rapidly replaced with panic as Benedict’s fingers dig into the soft, tawny skin of George’s neck. 

He feels like he can’t breathe—part panic, part psychosomatic threat. Benedict isn’t holding him tight enough to choke off his wind pipe, but he may as well be. George is starting to feel a little lightheaded, and he gasps and pushes at Benedict’s chest. 

Benedict either doesn’t care or doesn’t notice George’s rigid panic, because pretty soon he’s coming hard into the condom and grunting out a string of curses. George sucks in a ragged breath as soon as Benedict’s fingers loosen, and then he’s up and stumbling around to grab his clothes. 

“I asked you to stop and you didn’t,” he snaps as he tugs his pants on over his still-hard cock. “What the _fuck_.”  Benedict just sits on the bed and stares at him. There’s no remorse in his gaze and George’s stomach roils. “You—” George laughs darkly and shakily pulls his shirt on. “You’re an asshole.”

“Oh please, Georgie,” Benedict says, amused, as if George is just joking around. Overreacting. Being melodramatic. 

George’s vision is darkening with anger and he takes a deep breath, trying desperately to assert some control over himself. “Go fuck yourself,” he spits as he strides out of Benedict’s apartment. 

He knows he must look like a mess: Shirt half tucked in, lips red and swollen, bruises visible on his skin. _Fuck_ he’ll have to wear a stupid turtleneck to hide this shit tomorrow. 

As soon as he gets outside he starts walking, taking long strides and sucking in ragged lungfuls of the sharp, cold air. Sweat is beading on his forehead and his body feels uncomfortably hot in his winter clothes, overheating despite the bitter cold. He has no idea where he’s going; he just keeps walking. 

He’s calling Alex before he really thinks it over. 

“I thought you were with Benedict,” Alex snaps as soon as he picks up. George can’t find it in himself to feel guilty. There are too many other emotions swirling inside his head. He can’t make room for guilt right now. 

“I think I’m like two seconds away from losing my shit,” George says in response. Alex falters and takes a deep breath. 

“What happened? Where are you?” 

“Benedict—he crossed some boundaries and I asked him to stop, but he just kept going.” Alex sucks in a sharp, angry breath in George’s ear. “I don’t really know where I am, either.”

“Okay, well, stop what you’re doing and take a look around. I’ll catch a taxi and come get you.” George comes to a sudden stop and looks around him, finding the street signs, trying to fight the panic clawing at his throat.

“Corner of 10th and H northwest. He lives at CityCenter,” George pants. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.” 

“George, listen to me, just stay right where you are, okay? Just stay there and I’ll come get you.” 

“Okay, right. I’ll be here.” George pauses and takes a deep breath. “Thanks.” 

15 minutes later, Alex is hopping out of a red cab and pulling George into a crushing hug. George staggers a little before he regains his balance and wraps an arm around Alex’s slender waist. He breathes in the scent of Alex’s fruity shampoo and sighs. 

He’s considerably calmer than he was when he called Alex, but he’s still jittery and on edge. Still angry. 

“Hey, are you okay?” Alex asks once they end their hug. George nods and scratches the back of his neck. 

“Yeah… I’m sorry for calling. I was just kind of freaking out.” 

“Don’t be sorry. I told you I’d be here for you when you need me.” Alex very gently raises up on his tiptoes and kisses the corner of George’s mouth. George sighs and holds Alex there, keeping them pressed together until they’re just a single silhouette backlit by the lights of passing cars. 

After a few more seconds, they’re stepping away from each other again and Alex is staring into George’s eyes like he can see something there. George ducks his head and watches the white puffs of his exhales dissipating into the darkness. 

“Look, Alex—”

“Lets go to the Lincoln Memorial,” Alex says suddenly, cutting George off. George frowns and sticks his numb hands into his pockets. 

“Okay?” he says, though it comes out sounding more like a question. Alex grins impishly and nudges George’s shoulder. 

“C’mon, it’ll be fun. It’s always so beautiful at night all lit up with the reflecting pool there.” George bites his lip—hesitates—before nodding and fumbling around to grab Alex’s hand. 

“Alright, lets go catch the metro at Metro Center.”

\---

The Lincoln Memorial _is_ beautiful at night, and as they sit there huddled close together on the cold steps, George wonders why he doesn’t come here more often. The sky is like velvet and the moon is big and bright where it’s suspended over their heads. The warm lights from the monument reflect brilliantly off the reflecting pool, which, George muses, is probably the point.

A few steps down, a child is tottering back and forth, chatting animatedly to his mother. Beside them, two teenagers sit close together, sharing sweet kisses full of unspoken promises that will most likely be broken sooner rather than later.

George and Alex don’t talk, which George is perfectly fine with. He couldn’t say the things he needs to tell Alex. He’s not brave enough—not yet, at least.

_Sorry for going with Benedict._

_Sorry for not fucking listening to you._

_Sorry for being such a mess. I’m honestly trying to work on it._

_You’re the first good thing to happen to me in a long time, and I’m sorry that I keep pushing you away._

So instead of saying any of that, George just wraps an arm around Alex and nuzzles his ear when he lays his head on George’s shoulder. 

They sit there underneath Lincoln’s towering, marble gaze and just exist, breathing quietly—simpatico—and soaking up each other’s warmth. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk how I feel about this chapter. It was kind of hard to write, but oh well. It is what it is. 
> 
> Comments are always appreciated :-)


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